


And Parts of You were Burning

by angelfeast (miscellanium)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Sam Winchester, Episode Related, Gen, Lucifer as Sam | Sam as Lucifer, Mild Horror, Soulless Sam Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/angelfeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were more fragments. The soulless one just got to them first. (set during 6.22)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Parts of You were Burning

**Author's Note:**

> co-written with my very good friend wantedplantlife (tumblr/lj).

  
You're at a party again, in a bar where the lighting isn't very good and the music is too loud.

Jess looks perfect.

She's laughing at a joke you just made and you want to lean across the table and kiss her right now. You want to hold onto this memory forever, even if she's getting up to leave.

"I'm going to be late for class," she's saying, and now you kiss her. She tastes like breath mints and beer; she smiles at you and it's goodbye.

You wait until you can't see her any more, then walk away.

The hall to the bathroom is long, narrow; it almost makes you reach for a gun that isn't there, and when the door opens onto a room with a florescent glow you breathe. It's empty, the tiles on the floor are clean and white, and you think of places where they haven't been but those don't matter now.

The metal handles are cold, the water not so much. You're still working soap onto your hands when something in the mirror moves, makes you look up, and your eyes are yellow.

Except they can't be, so there's something wrong with the reflection, a demon maybe, but who ever heard of a demon in a mirror—

Your reflection, your face starts talking and it's your voice, no echo effect or weird lilt. Just your voice calling you a freak, telling you that you've always been a freak and there's no getting away from it, this is what you're going to become. But it's okay that you end up like this, it's good, because here's how—

You break the mirror.

No weapons, no exorcism, just paper towels wrapped thick around your fist as you hit and you hit and you hit, the glass buckling hard under your knuckles until it cracks not inward but outward—

There's a flash and the glass falls, but even as it falls your reflection is still there. Thin streaks of lightning jolt from the pieces, zipping into the gathering cloud of light. With each flash your fragmented face disappears from the glass, and for a moment it seems like the cloud is heading for your chest, but before you can take more than a step back it's all you can see—

The air in your mouth is ice, you're blinded, running from the bright smoke that's like nothing you know and you lose your balance, you're falling, and there's something behind you that's hard and then there's the floor and—

This is what happens next: there's a forest, familiar but not recognizable, and in it there is light. The light congeals, darkens, and then you're standing there with yellow eyes. But it's not you because he has the memories you don't. He knows things you don't. This Sam looks around, takes a step that pushes old leaves down into the earth, then he hears a voice. His voice. He turns, and there's another Sam coming into the clearing with a gun casual and ready.

"You must be the soulless one," the yellow-eyed Sam says. "Do you know why you're the soulless one?"

The other Sam lets his shoulders drop but the gun doesn't move. "Does it matter?"

"Well, we did say yes to Lucifer."

"So, what? Is there a point to this?" Sam's voice sounds the same without his soul and the other one pauses before pressing on.

"The big plan, the end game; that's what this, what our life was all leading up to," he says, yellow eyes glowing cold. "Although maybe it didn't play out the way we wanted it to, we drank enough demon blood to make us the perfect vessel for—"

"You keep saying us, we." Sam flicks his free hand, fingers spread like the spokes of a fan. "We're not the same person. I'm the better one." He fires.

-

You wake up on a park bench.

You've been here before but you don't know this place, you don't know why you're here. A cop comes over, starts talking to you, and you find out that you don't know your name.

-

It was night. Now it's day. You're walking through a forest that looks like it could be a heaven and you've got a gun. It's heavy in your hands but you know how to hold it somehow.

Just ahead there's movement, a rustling sound like before; through the woods you see yourself, ten years old, bowl cut and all, walking with your head down and trying not to trip over your shoelaces.

Then he raises his head and with a flash the sun's in your eyes. Was there yellow? Were your eyes yellow, when you were ten years old and tainted already? But then he looks away, goes behind a tree and that's the last of him. It was just a vision, one you've had before, and there's a stuttering in your mind—you're in a room made of iron with your arms hanging off the bed and a dragging in your veins—

The tree you fall against has bark that's rough, comforting. Breathe. Pick up the gun, start moving again. There's a clearing where the leaves muffle your footsteps and it's a circle so you turn. Then there's metal hard and cold pressing into your skin, your pulse.

-

You walk out of the woods and she dies.

—You wish you were surprised but you're not, not really. So, she dies, like they always do, and now you know enough to try and go to Bobby's, where there are answers even when they come too late.

It's not the car that's yours but the sense of belonging that comes with it. But it's empty again and so you get in, you put your hands where your brother's should be and drive.

The road is lined with gas stations and motels, neon lights you've seen before. You remember them now, these transient places—you remember them but that doesn't make a difference.

Up ahead there's a diner, one you stopped at a few years ago during that Flagstaff summer. There's a hollowness in you that feels like hunger, so you pull over, get out again.

It's old and tacky and familiar inside; you know this without looking, you find your way to the counter and it's like yesterday. The order's always the same in places like these so you say it, forgetting the words as they leave your mouth and as you look around the room it goes wrong.

It's wrong but there's no telling how. Yes, there are people and they're where they should be. But look at their faces, look closely and you can't see them. And the pictures on the wall, try to see the landscape and it falls apart. Put your hands on the counter and the texture slides away from you, the lights the wrong color like a film reel played unrestored.

Now, there's a click, a plate in front of you, and he's mixed up your order with someone else's. This rose, this red rose cannot be yours. But the man behind the counter says it is and he's got your face.

His suit is white, glowing clean. He's holding a notepad, ready to take your order again, but he doesn't have a pencil. He's smiling, and this is how you know you're not in there. It's like the mouth has been put in place by hooks.

Lucifer keeps smiling, and that's not the right word for it but you don't know what else to call it. He says, "I told you, this would always happen in Detroit."

He never told you. He's looking at you but he's not looking at you. This is not a memory, this is wrong, but as he leans across the counter his eyes are bright—

Run.

-

You've found the last part, the one to fill the niche in your chest, but you can see already it's not going to be a perfect fit, it's not going to be game over.

"Don't do this," he says, as though there's a choice. "Go find Jess," he says, and the gun is heavy in your hands.


End file.
